“Come on,” he said.
I expected him to gather up the water containers and start walking down the mountain toward the spring. But he didn’t. He started walking up. And for the first time, he didn’t hold the other end of my cable in his hand. Then I realized that he hadn’t given it the usual jerk just to remind me that I was an animal on his leash.
He started moving through the trees on the east side of our camp. Barzee followed him. She seemed … I don’t know, I don’t want to say happy—I don’t think I ever saw her happy—but she didn’t seem as angry as she usually did.
I watched them for a second, then started following them up the side of the mountain.
The forest was thinner above our camp, with occasional open meadows, or at least places where the trees were not as thick. The mountain dipped into a couple bowls where the terrain was not as steep. It wasn’t an easy climb, but it wasn’t nearly as steep as the route was toward the bottom of the canyon. As we climbed, I realized that we were not far from the route that Mitchell and I had taken on that first morning when he had led me into the camp. I flashed back to my red pajamas and white running shoes. I flashed back to my little sister lying beside me in bed. It seemed so long ago! A lifetime. Like it wasn’t even real. Who was that little girl in the red pajamas? What had become of her? Who was the girl who was now living in her place?
Then I realized it was the one-month anniversary of the night I had been taken. One day short of my “wedding” anniversary. The thought made me feel sick.
As we climbed, I thought of my family, wondering what they were doing on this Fourth of July. Had they forgotten me? Were they going on without me? Had they given up on the search? Surely they had. What else could they have done?
I remembered that in years past, we’d go to the Fourth of July rodeo up in Oakley. I used to dream of being a cowboy princess, with a glittering tiara on my cowboy hat. I dreamed of carrying the American flag around the arena on the back of my horse. I knew that, it being the Fourth of July, my family would have gone up to my grandparents’ ranch for a family party. I knew that the kids would be playing in the woods. I thought of my cousins. They’d be giggling in anticipation of playing night games, chasing one another around the huge yard. They suddenly seemed so young, so innocent and far removed from me.
I felt one hundred years old.
Surely my family would have mourned my passing, I thought. But just as surely they would have gone on with their lives. And they should have. It was the healthy and normal thing to do. My parents had other children they had to care for. It wasn’t fair to them if my parents were obsessed with my loss. It was important to bring normality back into their lives. It had been more than a month. To me it seemed like years. It must have seemed that long to them as well. And there was no reason for them to believe I was alive, no reason to believe that I was ever coming home. They couldn’t go on mourning my passing every day.
I pictured my mom again, still driving around our neighborhood and looking for any clues. I pictured my dad staring out the window every night. I thought of my family kneeling together to say their family prayers. Did they still pray for my safety? Did they pray that I’d return? Or did they pray now for acceptance and to get past the pain of losing me?
Whenever Mitchell went down into the city, he didn’t talk anymore about posters or blue ribbons like he had before. No more search parties. No more airplanes or calling voices or helicopters hovering over the camp.
No, they weren’t looking for me any longer. Everyone had moved on.
*
We walked up the side of the mountain. It took us about an hour, maybe a little less, to make it to the highest part of the ridge. There, the mountain opened up. It was an incredible view. I could see in every direction. The Wasatch Mountains continued to the east. Another canyon lay behind us, to the north. Looking east, I could see down into the city. Again, I was struck with how very close to home I was.
If I could fly … if I could fly … I would flap my wings and fly home.